


Treatise on Armed Males

by transpicuousTholing



Category: Homestuck
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Fencing, Gen, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-05-05
Packaged: 2018-03-12 21:12:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3355448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transpicuousTholing/pseuds/transpicuousTholing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Since your parents know absolutely nothing about you, except for the fact that you play violent video games, they signed you up for some class that seemed to involve weapons. Obviously, they hadn't, since when they mentioned a 'use of weaponry' in this mysterious class that you were told nothing about, you expected to show up at a shooting range with real men, not this weirdo standing before you."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to immaculateMacarist for proofing this for me, even though he simply despises Bro/Dave and all things Stridercest. Smooches! Also, I am a huge nerd for fencing, so I hope you enjoy this as much as I do.

"All you do is sit around the house," your parents say. "Do something for a change!" They had told you that an after-school activity would be a "fun opportunity." An opportunity for what? More stress? You already had enough homework that you don't have time for—which is probably your fault, as you waste all your time and efforts on video games, but—that's not the point.

Your point is that you are now trapped in a room with a strange man wearing hiked up, yellow basketball shorts, and you both have on bright white, onsie-looking things. And swords. Two elongated swords that looked like they could easily be snapped in half—as they were about as thick as a toothpick—were held in yours and the strange man's hands. How did you get here again? Oh, that's right.

Since your parents know absolutely nothing about you, except for the fact that you play violent video games, they signed you up for some class that seemed to involve weapons. Obviously, they hadn't, since when they mentioned a "use of weaponry" in this mysterious class that you were told nothing about, you expected to show up at a shooting range with real men, not this weirdo standing before you. But, you had to admit, the guy did seem to be pretty strong. From what you could see, his neck muscles weren't hideously bulging, but it was clear there was some present. The same applied to what wasn't hidden in his large basketball shorts. Why are they even called basketball shorts, anyway? If anything, they should be called basketball _capris_.

It was awkwardly silent, since you didn't use proper manners and shake his hand like you were supposed to when you first walked in here. "So, your name's Dave, right?" he asks. You hum pathetically, and internally groan at your mom's voice who seems to be yelling, "You are being so rude right now! No Xbox for a week!" Get out of there, Mom! You're so annoying!

You're pounding your hand on your head like you're trying to get water out of your ear. Once your mom is gone, you look up to see the man staring at you, concerned about what had just happened. You both strain to laugh it off, but you choke on the thick, awkward atmosphere. "Well, my name is Dirk. Think of me as....a brother! Yeah!"

"How old are you?" you ask, determined to call him an old man.

"38," he replies.

"Old man." you scoff. How incredibly rude of you.

He was trying his best to keep his cool and not call you a brat; you could tell, as he was making the same face your teachers did before kicking you out of the room because you were "disruptive." But, were you really? I mean, everybody was laughing and basically _cheering_  for you as you made fun of the teacher, or did something stupid, like the average teenage boy. Adults just didn't understand how to have a good time. That's why, at the age of sixteen, you deemed yourself immortal—someone who would never grow old, and stay immature for all eternity. You thought highly of yourself, and wanted to keep it that way.

"Let's get started, alright, kiddo?"

Laughing at the nickname, you nod and hold out your pointy twig of a weapon with both hands and bend your knees. You totally know how to do this already; you've seen enough Pirates of the Caribbean. The old man isn't getting in a battle stance, though. Instead, he breaks out in laughter. Now you're the one looking at him with a concerned face.

"You're stance is all wrong, rookie. You didn't even put your mask on!"

Looking to the dirtied white tile floor, you see your mask close behind you in a dusty corner; you were wondering what that was for. You turn around and bend over to grab your mask and give yourself an atomic wedgie. This onsie thing was like a giant thong, so it was pretty uncomfortable. Quickly, you put the mask on to hide your now red face from embarrassment. He walks to you after setting his rapier aside.

"Dominant hand?"

"Right," you mumble.

Grabbing your right arm, he stands behind you and adjusts your limb so that your rapier is pointing to the northeast as your arm is sticking straight out. You can hear his steady breathing by your left ear, and it's making you feel a little uncomfortable. It's also getting really hot in your mask. In attempt to cool down, you take deeper breaths, and _really_  hope your instructor can't hear you. He kicks your left leg lightly.

"Separate your legs a little wider."

You'd gulp if it weren't so cliche, and you put a bit more distance between your left and right leg. "Good, good." he tells you. "Now, to do a lunge," and oh thank God he's walking away from you. He gets in his own proper stance. "You simply step forward with your dominant leg, which is on the same side as your dominant hand, and jut your rapier out." He does exactly what he described to you with the left side of his body. So he's a lefty? Cool.

Trying to copy him, you have to repeat what he did a few times in order to do it properly. You forget to step forward with your right foot the first time, and you take two steps forward the second. By the third try you successfully lunged at the air, and Dirk claps his gloved hands. "Nice! I have a feeling you're going to be an easy student!" And with that, your self-esteem gained +15 experience points.

As you're in the passenger's seat next to your mom, she asks you how your lesson was, and you say that it was simply, "Alright." Thinking back to your lesson, you remember what a good time you had, and how chill your instructor turned out to be. What was his name again? You're pretty sure it was Dirk, but you can always ask him again later. Oh man, you can't wait to come back again next week.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Excessive dialogue can reveal a lot, don't you agree?

You've been attending these fencing lessons for little over a month now, and time sure has flied. "Going pro" hasn't exactly occurred yet, but you still feel pretty confident in your skills. Defense was more of your thing rather than attacking, you realised by your fourth lesson. Parries, circles included, were moves you had down to a T. But, disengaging seemed impossible for you to do. For some reason, there was just something so difficult about tricking your opponent. How did your instructor lunge to your left, and then move his rapier like he was tracing a semi-circle that led to a poke in your right side? That man was so swift with all of his motions; you didn't understand why he wasn't a world champion instead of being stuck to work with snotty kids in an unkempt fitness center. Or, maybe you were just plain bad at what you did. Denying the latter, you created a scenario in your head about how your instructor must have been world renowned at one point, but was forced to leave the competitions due to an injury that would never be able to heal properly. His love for fencing undying, he decided to teach others about it so he could pass on the passion he had that would unfortunately never be used again.

"Mm...Yep. That's pretty much what happened, actually." he had replied after you jokingly told him your "theory" on his back story of why he became a fencing instructor.

"Oh, shit! Seriously?" Your voice was borderline squeaky. He must be joking; has has to be! Right?

"Yeah," he said with a nod.

"Wh...Where is it?" you ask after a few minutes of processing.

"Where's what?"

"Your injury that you had to leave for!" Real smooth; you're positive he just _loves_ talking about it.

He pulls up his right sleeve and removes his glove to give you a view of a long scar that ran from his wrist to his elbow. "I damaged my tendons right there," he tells you while dragging a finger along his forearm. "And now I can't move my fingers anymore in this hand." Shaking his arm up and down, each of his fingers lifelessly flop along with the movement. "But, I'm grateful that it wasn't my left, then I'd be in some _serious_ trouble." You nod as you scrutinise the poorly healed stitching, and then you quickly turn your head away, as you remember that it's rude to stare.

"If it wasn't your left, then how come you had to quit?"

Thinking for a moment, he looks towards a wall to his right, and then towards you. "Well, it could've been for a variety of reasons. I mean, first off, I had to get surgery as an attempt to try and resolve my issue, but championships were almost there, so, I had to choose one or the other." He punctuated what he was saying by making wide, dragging motions with his rapier on a dusty floor mat. "The pain was just _unbearable_ , so my sister scolded me about 'Don't push yourself too hard, Di,' and, 'Mother would only want the best from you.'

"I ended up going into surgery, and as you can tell, it didn't work out so well. As soon as word got out, my sponsors started giving up on me; I did try physical therapy, but nothing worked. Even if it was my right hand, by the time I finally got done with all that training, all of my sponsors were gone. You can't really be an athlete without sponsors."

Your mind goes completely blank, and you mutter a "That's deep, bro."

All he does in return is shrug. "What can you do?" he finishes with a sigh. "Anyway, let's see what we need to work on this week, okay?"

"Alright, I guess." Good, god, that memoir put you in a less than positive mood. But, you manage to straighten out your posture, anyway. You watch as your instructor raises, then lowers his rapier in salute, the tip pointing to the ceiling. In an attempt to follow suit, you make sure your guard does not go above your nose in order to complete the salute successfully, as well as properly. He nods his head in approval.

"En garde!" he shouts. You struggle to quickly place your mask onto your head, envying how effortlessly your instructor does the task. Placing your right foot behind a duct taped line in the middle of the blue gymnasts' mat that the two of you were currently standing on, your instructor does the same with his left. "Ready, kiddo?" With a nod, you eagerly await what you know he is going to announce.

"Play!"

And with that, you're off. The sound of rapiers clinking and clashing together doesn't last long, as your instructor catches you off guard with that infamous—infamous to you, of course—disengaging technique of his. With a poke to the chest, you wince a bit; you will never see the day when that doesn't hurt you, even if the pain were to last a brief moment. "Halt!" you attempt to yell breathlessly.

"Hey, woah, woah! Why the halt all of a sudden? I was playing fair, I swear!"

"Nah," you wheeze. "It's not that. I just really, _really_ need you to teach me how to do that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I give you my deepest apologies for the short, and extremely belated, chapter. It's quite hard trying to balance my several other stories with school, but don't fret. Summer is almost here, everyone!
> 
> P.S. Would anyone be interested in becoming a beta reader for my future works? Many thanks in advanced to those up for the job!

**Author's Note:**

> I am aware that instructors' uniforms are black, but black instructor uniforms are uncommon in America for some reason.


End file.
